


letters

by rangerhitomi



Series: radical dreamers [9]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Gen, Past Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasch is a warrior, and a king, and Durbe as a knight can’t tell him… so he writes to Nasch instead. But he can never bring himself to send the letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	letters

The crown suits Nasch, Durbe thinks, though Nasch complains often that it’s heavy, or feels strange on his head, or keeps sliding uncomfortably. Every time he stops in the hallway in front of any sort of reflective surface, he makes a face and readjusts it. At dinners, Durbe has to wordlessly remind him which utensils to use for what, or what side of the dish to place the goblet, and Nasch rolls his eyes. Durbe tries not to laugh. It suits him because Nasch doesn’t want it, but he accepts it anyway. He’s just a child, after all.

Armor doesn’t really suit Nasch, though, and Durbe feels a stab of regret each time he sees Nasch don it. There’s a confidence in him that Durbe rarely saw in their younger years. He stands a little straighter, his chin is tilted upward, his gaze unblinking and cold. There is no laughter in his face, no childish scowl or pout. It doesn’t suit him because Nasch is not cold and humorless and serious. But no matter how Durbe tries to tell himself that Nasch is the same person, Nasch is growing up. And he’s changing.

Durbe is dutiful to his new king. He listens, and never offers advice that is not asked for. He teaches Nasch the sword, and Nasch quickly surpasses him in skill. He’s a natural with the weapon. Just like he is a natural with horses and strategy games and athletics.

He shouldn’t be a natural when it comes to war.

Sometimes Nasch catches Durbe gazing at him and there’s a hint of curiosity in them, a tiny tilt of the head and a way that Nasch’s eyebrows scrunch, that reminds Durbe more of happier days. Nasch isn’t a child anymore. He is a king. A warrior. And he is growing handsome.

 _What’s the matte_ r? Nasch asks, frowning, and Durbe has to shake his head and offer a reluctant smile.

_Nothing, my friend. My apologies._

Nasch is a warrior, and a king, and Durbe as a knight can’t tell him… so he writes to Nasch instead. But he can never bring himself to send the letters. So he keeps them in a chest in his room. They pile up. Still he can’t send them. It’s not the right time. It’s never the right time. He can’t convince himself to burn them, either. It would be like burning away his soul.

So he keeps them hidden.

For three years.

* * *

Nasch has a beautiful singing voice. Durbe discovers this on accident one evening when he goes out to the stables to check on Mach and hears a soft voice in a neighboring stall. He thinks it must be a stable boy, but when he approaches, he finds Nasch, crownless and in drab apparel, brushing his own horse. He doesn’t notice Durbe standing behind him, and Durbe wants to listen to him sing that hauntingly beautiful song just a little longer.

_It's reverberated deep in my heart for so long...  
Though it's a whisper fainter than a drop of evening dew—_

The horse snorts and Nasch turns his head, jumping from the stool when he sees Durbe watching him.

“What are… how long have…” Nasch the Warrior would never stammer. He would never turn crimson and turn away and furiously brush his horse’s mane to avoid making eye contact. He clears his throat and doesn’t turn around again. “What are you doing here, Durbe?”

Durbe looks at the dusty ground and bites his lip. “I’m… just checking on Mach.”

“His stall is over there.” Nasch points.

“I know, I’m sorry I…”

Nasch shakes his head and finally turns around. They’re nearly the same height, though Durbe thinks he might have Nasch by a fraction. “It’s not your fault. You just startled me.”

“I’m s—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Nasch waves a hand and focuses his gaze to the left a bit, so he’s staring at Durbe’s ear. “Um. So why…”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” The words cause Nasch to flinch slightly and Durbe tears his gaze away from Nasch’s face. “Mach and I. We’re heading… back.”

“Oh.” It’s a quiet sound. “Why?”

“Peace negotiations,” Durbe lies, because it’s easier to say than _I’ve been called back to war against my own friends._

Nasch’s shoulders relax visibly. “Oh.” It’s stronger this time. “When will you be—“

“Would you like to go for a ride with me, my king?” Durbe cuts in, because one lie is all he can muster without it being obvious.

There’s skepticism in Nasch’s face. The way he lifts an eyebrow and side-eyes the stall separating his horse from Mach radiates reluctance, but he sighs and acquiesces.

Durbe holds out his hand. Nasch takes it and lets Durbe help him up onto Mach’s back.

“Hold tight, my friend,” Durbe says, and he can’t help but laugh as Nasch swears loudly on takeoff.

He likes the way Nasch’s arms wrap around him, and the way Nasch’s face presses into his back.

 _It won’t ever happen again,_ he tells himself, and the truth of it kills some of the magic of the moment.

* * *

Someone shakes Nasch awake. He mumbles and tries to bat them away – he’s freezing; why the hell is the window open before sunrise? – but they punch him gently and he finally rolls over. Merag stands there, already fully dressed for the day.

“What is it, Merag?”

“Sir Durbe is leaving, brother.” She’s troubled. “He didn’t want to wake you, but…”

Nasch pushes back the silk blankets and scrambles out of bed, tugging his nightshirt as low as it would go – mid-thigh – and runs barefoot through the palace, a seething anger burning inside of him. “Durbe!” he yells as he slides clumsily into the entrance hall, and he has to bend over slightly to catch his breath. Several servants cover their eyes or hurry away to do something else, and the guard at the door turns around after glancing wryly at the sorry state of Nasch’s bedhead and wrinkled nightclothes.

“My king,” Durbe murmurs, and he sighs before turning around.

Nasch punches him in the shoulder, which is a stupid move because Durbe is armored, so he only succeeds in hurting himself. “You idiot, were you really going to leave without saying goodbye to your king?”

He’s probably causing a scene, standing there half-undressed and yelling at his knight in the entrance hall before the crack of dawn, but he’s mad and by the gods is Durbe going to _hear about it_.

“You haven’t been getting enough sleep lately so I didn’t want—“

“I would have gotten plenty of sleep last night but _someone_ decided he wanted to—“ Nasch is suddenly aware that they aren’t alone and Durbe awkwardly clears his throat, so Nasch changes the subject. “When will you be back?”

Durbe never answered the question the night before, just swept Nasch off his feet and showed him the stars and… and Nasch fell asleep to the cool breeze and Durbe’s warm body and soothing baritone.

 _That’s why the window was open_ , Nasch realizes, because Durbe must have brought him back to his room and—

He glances down at his bare legs and flushes crimson and his momentary distraction is enough for Durbe to take two steps forward and pull Nasch into an awkward embrace, a tight embrace, and Nasch isn’t sure for a minute if Durbe is planning on letting go.

He should have known then.

Durbe finally lets go and pats Nasch’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he says with a humorless smile. “I’ll… I’ll write.”

Nasch can’t miss the drops of water falling to the floor as Durbe walks away.

He climbs on Mach’s back without turning back, and Nasch watches his best friend go.

* * *

 

But Durbe doesn’t write. And he doesn’t come back.

* * *

 

Merag knew that morning, all those months ago, that Durbe wouldn’t be coming back. But she couldn’t tell her brother. He would never have let Durbe go. Every day he stood outside watching, waiting.

_He said he’d write. It’s been weeks._

She finds him sitting on Durbe’s bed, back to the door, a pile of papers next to him. His shoulders quake as he reads one paper, then another, and another, until he’s… _gods,_ he’s a mess. She sits next to him and takes his hands and he leans into her and she lets him cry because he’s finally figured it out.

“He wrote,” Nasch whispers hoarsely. “He wrote… for years.”

She doesn’t know what to say, so she squeezes his hands until he pulls one away and shuffles through the pile of letters he’s already read and hands her the one on the bottom.

Reading it is like eavesdropping on a private conversation, but he hands her paper after paper, and she reads the words she knew Durbe wanted to say for a long time but never did, not until he was gone, and she still can’t speak because she doesn’t know how to comfort her brother over this.

Some of it is almost humorous advice – _don’t try the fishcakes at the eastern pier because they’ll make you practically sleep with a chamber pot for three days_ – but some of it is so personal that she doesn’t want to go on.

_I would give anything to keep you from having to take up the mantle of war._

_I will be your shield and your strength. I will give my life for you._

_We’ve both changed so much since our youth but my love for you has not. It will never waver._

“The night before he left, he told me he was going to negotiate peace talks,” Nasch whispers.

_Revolution has broken out in my homeland. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew I might not come back._

"I never knew." Nasch lets the paper fall to the floor, and he closes his eyes. Teardrops splatter down onto the last lines of Durbe's last unsent letter.

_I’m sorry you have to find out this way. But I wanted my last memories of you to be happy ones. I hope, someday, we will meet again, and that you will be able to forgive me for my selfishness._

_Forever your friend,_

_Durbe_


End file.
